Natalie's Art: a Frank Renzi novel

by Susan Fleet

  Not only that, anytime she went out some Boston cop might recognize her and arrest her.

  Her one consolation: Frank Renzi, her relentless pursuer, wasn't here. He was in New Orleans.

  But Gregor wanted her to steal two paintings from a museum known worldwide for an infamous art heist in 1990. Those paintings had never been recovered and several agencies were still looking for them: the FBI, Interpol, The Stolen Art Registry, not to mention every art detective in the world, seeking the glory—and the financial reward—for recovering them.

  Steal two Vermeers worth millions of dollars from the Gardner? Impossible. Security would be off the chart.

  Even if she managed to steal them, how would she escape? She had no illusions about one thing. If something went wrong, Gregor wouldn't help her. Gregor would throw her to the wolves.

  Kill them, or you will die too.

  CHAPTER 8

  Friday June 25, 2010 – 11:30 AM – Boston

  Nicholas Kwan drove his waxed-and-polished Lexus out of the car wash, continued down Massachusetts Avenue and turned onto a side street near the Boston Medical Center complex. The sleazy surroundings did not improve his foul mood: whiny panhandlers, litter in the street, overflowing dumpsters. He’d seen rats bigger than house cats in the alleys.

  His destination lay ahead, a squat building with a Day-Glo-yellow sign—LARRY’S—in Chinese-red letters. Larry bought rat and roach poison to keep his restaurant pest-free and Tums to settle his stomach at the pharmacy across the street. Sav-More-Drugs. The name must amuse the junkies, Nicolas thought sourly as he parked his car in the lot beside the restaurant.

  The gutter in front of the door was littered with candy wrappers and losing lottery tickets. Nicholas clenched his teeth. Upon arriving in Boston, he had paid his respects to the Dragon Master, ruler of a powerful Boston tong and great-uncle of his San Francisco overlord. Considering his status in San Francisco, Nicholas expected to receive the respect he deserved, but the Dragon Master sent him on these shitty errands. Soon he would escape these disgusting chores.

  Soon he would have enough money to leave the country. Then the Dragon Master could find another errand boy. And so could Stefan.

  Nicolas removed his mirrored Ray-Bans and stepped into the foyer. Above dark wainscoting, a mural depicted Chinese scenes: a river lined with bamboo shoots, pagodas and distant mountains. Carved-wood Fu Dogs guarded each end of a ten-foot take-out counter. In the dining room, two skinny Asian girls were serving customers.

  Larry Ho lumbered through a swinging door behind the counter. His head was shaved and a Hawaiian shirt hugged his enormous belly. The top button was open, revealing folds of fat below his chin. Larry rested his forearms on the counter, his moon-face wreathed in a smile, though his eyes were flat and emotionless. “Right on time, Nicholas. You hungry? I fix you some Tai Chien Chicken.”

  Nicholas said nothing. He would never consider eating food from this dump. He extracted a wad of bills from the pocket of his windbreaker and set it on the counter. Larry counted the money and stuck the bills in his pocket. Nicholas studied his eyes. They betrayed nothing.

  “How’s your uncle, Nicolas? He doing okay?”

  Seething, Nicolas scratched his beard. The fat man knew he had no uncle.

  Swallowing his irritation, he said, “My uncle is fine.” A sudden impulse made him say, “He commends you for dealing with his most talented nephew.”

  Larry’s smile widened. “Always happy to help out.”

  The fat man pretended to be jolly, but Nicholas was not deceived.

  He was about to leave when a customer walked in, a skinny black woman in jeans and a purple sweatshirt with holes in the elbows. She went to the other end of the counter near the cash register, deliberately, it seemed to Nicholas.

  Larry moved down the counter. “Good to see you, Jamilla. What can I get for you?”

  In a low voice she said, “How ‘bout the Canton Special.”

  “Sure thing.” Larry scribbled on an order pad and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Nicholas eyed her scornfully. He knew the code. She was laundering food stamps. She appeared to be in her thirties, though he found it difficult to determine a black person’s age. Her skin was the color of eggplant and her kinky black hair was cropped short. Avoiding his eyes, she scratched her scalp, then her shoulder, then her arm. Coke itch, Nicholas thought contemptuously.

  A minute later Larry returned with her order. Nicholas marveled at his Buddha-like bulk. Nicolas was five-six, several inches shorter than the fat man, but the fat man outweighed him by one hundred pounds, maybe more.

  Larry set a take-out bag on the counter. “I put in extra fortune cookies for your son. He must be getting big. Is he in school yet?”

  “Not till next year. He’s only five.” She turned her back to Nicholas and slipped a wad of food stamps to Larry.

  The stupid bitch. Trying to hide the transaction.

  Larry pulled out the bills Nicholas had given him, peeled off some twenties and palmed them into her hand.

  “Thanks, Larry. You’re a prince.” She took the take-out bag and went to the door.

  “Stop by more often, Jamilla. We miss you around here.”

  The woman left without answering.

  “Why were you so nice to her?” Nicolas asked. “Those people are scum.”

  Larry removed a roll of Tums from the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt and popped one in his mouth. “She’s not a bad person. She’s just down on her luck.”

  “She’s a junkie. She is lazy. Too lazy to work.”

  “No she isn’t. She used to be a cop, walked the beat around here for two years.”

  “She’s a cop?” Nicholas said with sudden interest.

  “She was, until her boyfriend messed up her head.”

  “Where’s the boyfriend?”

  “In jail. Too bad they didn’t nail him before he got her hooked on coke. She was a good cop before she got mixed up with him.”

  “Since when do you like cops?”

  Larry shrugged. “I feel bad for her. She got caught in the jar. Second time around, they busted her off the force. She’s pretty bitter about it.”

  Even more interesting, Nicolas decided. “Where does Jamilla Gorilla live?”

  The skin around Larry’s almond-shaped eyes tightened. “Why? You want to ask her out? I don’t think she’s your type.”

  He loathed the fat man’s taunts and often thought of what he might do to retaliate someday.

  “Forget the jokes,” he snapped. “Tell me where she lives.”

  “Harrison Avenue, above the 7-Eleven.”

  “What is her last name?”

  “Wells,” the fat man said, his dark eyes flat and implacable. “Jamilla Wells.”

  Nicolas put on his mirrored Ray-Bans. “The Dragon Master said to remind you that you have not made your quota for two months.”

  He left before the fat man could reply.

  ____

  Larry went to the front window and watched Nicholas Kwan return to the black Lexus he loved so much. He looked like an Italian greaser with his slicked down hair and dark beard. Did he wear those ridiculous sunglasses to hide his Asian heritage? Or was it his pathetic attempt at a disguise.

  Larry Ho had an insatiable curiosity. Safety, he believed, lay in knowing everything that transpired in his neighborhood and overseeing every detail of his business, which included the restaurant, the food stamp scam and a few other things he had going. After Nicholas showed up six months ago, Larry had asked around. Nobody knew anything, but he persisted. A friend in San Francisco enlightened him.

  Nicholas had killed two cops there. This was a serious matter. The cops wouldn’t rest until they caught him. Which meant Nicholas was dangerous. What did he want with Jamilla? Larry wondered.

  Up until three years ago she had walked the Medical Center beat, making sure his customers were safe, responding quickly if a drunk got rowdy. After the cops fired her, she'd clerked at the 7-
Eleven for a while, but she had the boy to support. Last year she had applied for food stamps. He hated to think what else she might be doing to make money. Blacks had it rough in Boston.

  But so did Asians. His parents had come here from China speaking no English. In 1950, the year Larry was born, they opened a small restaurant. Four years later his mother died. His father never remarried. Now his elderly father lived with him. Larry’s wife had stayed home to raise their two children. His son was a neurosurgeon now, his daughter, a software engineer.

  He popped another Tums and thought about Nicholas. Two months ago, he found out where Nicholas lived and followed him one night. Nicholas had a job, a strange one, considering he was on the lam. He worked as an overnight guard at the Gardner Museum. Not for the money, certainly. Those jobs paid shit.

  The puzzle confounded him. Larry turned away from the window. Four hours from now he would get in his Lincoln Town Car, drive home and relax with a cocktail before dinner. Barbecued steak, baked potato and corn on the cob tonight. Good old American food. He adored steak. In fact, he almost preferred it to sex, except when his lovely 98-pound wife got a certain look in her eye.

  Again, the puzzle sidetracked him. Why was Nicholas working as a museum guard? What did he want with Jamilla?

  Not sex, obviously. Nicholas hated blacks.

  _____

  New Orleans – 10:55 AM

  “Hey, Frank, great to hear from you! Are you in Boston?”

  Pleased by the warm words from his former boss, Frank smiled. Lieutenant Colonel Harrison Flynn supervised the Boston PD homicide detectives in District Four where Frank used to work. “No, but next Monday I might be. After I get back from London.”

  “London? What's up? Vacation? Or work?”

  “Natalie Brixton.”

  A shocked silence, then, “Wow. You got a line on her?”

  Frank glanced at the clock on his bedside table. His suitcase lay open on the bed. In two hours he was meeting Kelly at the airport and he hadn't finished packing. “Yes, but I don't have time to give you the details. She might be working for a gang of art thieves in London.”

  “How'd you get onto her?”

  “I've been haunting the Interpol website for leads, finally got one.”

  “I gotta hand it to you, Frank. You're persistent.”

  “Yes I am and this time I'm gonna get her.”

  “You got a law enforcement connection in London?”

  “Yes, in the Criminal Investigation Division, Art and Antiques Unit.” Holding his cellphone in one hand, he opened a bureau drawer, grabbed a handful of socks and tossed them in the suitcase. “A man got shot during an art heist last weekend. One shot to the head. Sound familiar?”

  “Indeed it does. Now you've really got me hooked. The Oliver James case is still open. Be nice to solve it before I retire.”

  “Whoa! You're retiring? When? How come?”

  He went to his closet and took out some shirts. His boss didn't answer right away, which seemed odd.

  “In October,” Flynn finally said. “My wife says it's time we visited the grand-kids in California.”

  “Good for you. You earned it.” He put the shirts in his suitcase. “How many years you got in?”

  “Thirty-five. What time will you be here on Monday? I'll save a spot for you.” Flynn uttered a sardonic laugh. “My calendar is chock full, what with all the politicians wanting to visit me.”

  “I don't doubt it,” he said, playing along with the sarcasm. “Kelly and I land at Logan at eleven AM.”

  “Kelly's going?”

  “Yes. She'll fly back to New Orleans from Logan, but if I get a hot lead in London, I might not fly back until Tuesday. I'll try and get to your office by twelve-thirty.”

  “Great. We can have lunch.”

  “Perfect. See you Monday.” He had no idea if he'd find Natalie in London, but why not think positive?

  _____

  Boston – 10:15 PM

  She had the cabbie drop her off at the Chinatown Gate. Earlier, to prepare for the meeting, she had used her laptop to research Boston's Chinatown. She'd seen photos, but the massive Chinatown Gate was far more impressive up close, four stories high. Huge cement pillars supported a green-tiled two-tiered roof. Below the upper tier, a cement panel held four gold Chinese characters. On either side of the gate, two white-stone Fu Dogs with fearsome faces sat on cement pedestals.

  Bounded by the Financial District, the New England Medical Center and the theater district, Chinatown housed 5,000 residents. Most were Asians whose ancestors had come from China, Vietnam, Cambodia and other Far East countries. But other Boston residents and many tourists came to Chinatown.

  Tonight, enjoying the balmy weather, people strolled along in shorts and shirtsleeves. She had on her student disguise: stone-washed jeans, a Northeastern University T-shirt and a Red Sox baseball cap.

  She joined the pedestrians, walking along sidewalks lined with small shops and restaurants with neon signs that flashed Dim Sum, Cocktails. Metal plaques on some buildings indicated their family affiliation. From the 1880s to the 1920s, these benevolent associations, known as tongs, protected newly arrived immigrants from discrimination. But criminals took over some tongs, profiting from illegal activities like prostitution, gambling, drug and gun running, gangs now known as Triads.

  She passed several restaurants, the Empire Garden, the Dumpling Cafe, Dim Sum Cafe. Menus posted on the windows were in English and Chinese. Following the directions she'd been given, she lengthened her stride. Now the streets were dark and narrow and silent. And she was the only pedestrian. At last she found what she was looking for, a small yellow sign on a red-brick building. Royal Dragon. Etched above it were three red Chinese characters. An arrow pointed to an alley.

  But a security camera was mounted on the wall. Unwilling to have her face appear on videotape, she ducked her head and pulled the Red Sox cap lower. Her heart accelerated as she entered the dark alley. Her benefactor seemed nice enough on the phone, but now that she was about to meet him, she felt nervous. Pak Lam was an important man. Chen had spoken of him with reverence, saying he was a great leader.

  At the end of the alley, twin pagoda lanterns illuminated a red door emblazoned with Chinese symbols. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and knocked on the door. An elderly Chinese man with white hair and a wrinkled face opened the door and led her through a room with small round tables and vacant chairs. The odor of incense filled the air, and faint music was playing, a Chinese melody.

  The elderly man stopped at a carved-wood door and tapped once.

  A slender man in black silk trousers and a Chinese-red silk shirt opened the door. “Come in, Valerie.”

  He was only a few inches taller that she was, five-foot-ten perhaps, though his dignified bearing made him appear larger. But this was not the most striking thing about him. At one time his face must have been handsome. Now an angry scar bisected his left cheek from his eyebrow to his jaw.

  To hide her reaction to his disfigurement, she put her palms together and bowed deeply. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I am honored to meet you.”

  “It is my pleasure. Chen has spoken highly of you. Come sit down.”

  He swept his arm, indicating four chairs with gold upholstery facing a low table lacquered with black enamel. He took the chair opposite hers and studied her, expressionless, his eyes dark and flat.

  She tried to estimate his age. No gray in his jet-black hair, but she guessed he might be in his fifties.

  “Chen has told me you need help with a difficult employer. But if it involves drugs, I cannot help you. As a matter of principle, I have nothing to do with drugs or those who sell them. Many people come here to enjoy our food and our cultural offerings. But Chinatown has a dark side, criminals who threaten legitimate businesses owners like myself. In addition to my grocery stores, I offer these businesses protection …” Lam spread his hands. “Along with a few other services which I provide. So. How can
I help you?”

  The directness of his question flustered her. To avoid an immediate answer, she said, “How should I address you?”

  A faint smile softened his expression. “You have been raised well. My name is Pak Soon Lam. However, the leader of a Triad is known by the number 489. My associates call me Mountain Man.”

  She wanted to get up and dance around the room. What a lucky coincidence! Following Vietnamese customs, she had chosen birds and mountains to protect her. And her benefactor was The Mountain Man.

  “But you may call me Mr. Lam. How may I help you?”

  She hesitated, suddenly anxious, fearing what he would think. “I need a gun. Not for drug deals. To protect myself.”

  “What sort of gun?”

  “A Beretta.”

  He showed no surprise at her quick response. “That will be no problem. Is that all?”

  “Would it be possible to get some kind of bug to track a car?”

  “Yes. You will also need an iPhone to use with the tracking device. One moment.” He went to an elegant carved-wood desk in the corner of the room, picked up a phone and spoke in some sort of Chinese dialect. While he talked, she studied a color photograph mounted on the wall. Two young children, a boy and a girl perhaps six or seven years old, stood hand in hand, laughing. They looked so much alike, they had to be twins. A striking woman with dark almond eyes and flowing black hair stood behind them.

  Lam returned and sat down. He glanced at the photograph as though he had seen her looking at it.

  “Your family” she asked.

  He stared into space for several seconds, his face impassive. After a moment he said, “What is your heritage?”

  “My mother was Caucasian. My father is Vietnamese, born in Paris but he later came to America. I was born here. When I was two, he abandoned me and my mother.”

  Lam frowned. “And you never saw him again?”

  “I saw him once. I would rather not talk about it.” The memory of that hideous night in Paris remained etched in her mind.